


Some Great Concern

by starryeyeddreamers



Series: The Cradle of Liberty [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boston, Busking, I just write Enjolras being frustrated and Grantaire being a brat, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 06:01:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starryeyeddreamers/pseuds/starryeyeddreamers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras finds his favorite study spot invaded by a familiar busker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Great Concern

The season had finally cloaked the city with the vibrants hues that only come when the softness of Summer has been ripped away and replaced with the briskness of autumn. Boston, for all her grumbling about the cold, wore autumn like a designer dress. The city knew that October was her time to shine. The Common was ablaze with color, from the trees and the colorful blankets her citizens admired them from. In the Public Garden, weeping willows swing in the breeze, reaching down to chastely caress the surface of the lake. Children in striped sweaters struggled to catch the fearless squirrels as they bounded through the leaves. The ducks quacked lazily in the water, uninterrupted now that the swan boats had flown away for the winter. In the soft afternoon sun, the Garden looked like a magical forest set ablaze.

Or so Jehan said in the poems he read to the group at their last meeting.

Enjolras only cared that it offered a quiet place to study. Despite the cacophony of children’s laughter, rain boots squeaking as they crunched through discarded leaves, and the usual sounds of a small city. The knuckleheads in the room next to his were so loud that the dull roar was preferable. There was also the added bonus that barely anyone from school was willing to trek all the way from Cambridge, so there would be less chance of interruption.

He had settled on his favorite bench and had immediately pulled out a notebook and his laptop. His back was to the Washington statute, which Combeferre joked about saying the Enjolras hoped to stoke his revolutionary fervor by being in the presence of the revolutionary leader. He faced the signature blue suspension bridge that spanned the miniature lake. He, as usual, was not appreciative of the aesthetic beauty of his surroundings, but of the practicality of it. (Or what he had reasoned to himself was the practicality of it, it was a bit of a hike from his dorm, and he thanked God that the city was so walkable.)

He had been there for a half an hour when he subconsciously recognized the strumming of a guitar coming from the bridge. He glanced up, mostly to ascertain which busker it was now, there was always a steady rotation of regulars. Last week had been a man singing in Italian, which had been quite calming. It wasn’t the Italian man and his mandolin. His eyes went back to his paper.

Wait.

He recognized that hat, those black curls.

He looked up again before he could help himself, peering over the top of his laptop. That was when Grantaire began to sing. Enjolras did not recognize the song which was not a surprise considering his general lack of knowledge where music was concerned. 

He was good. His mouth, usually used for contradictory statements meant to rile Enjolras, was being used to sing instead. His voice was low but smooth and why hadn’t Enjolras known he could sing. He felt jealous of the smiles the skeptic was currently bestowing on those who passed, turning into a grin as they dropped coins into his battered guitar case. Grantaire in his green, theadbare hoodie, had his body leaned against the powder blue of the delicate iron railing of the tiny bridge. There was a beer bottle by his feet. The song was melancholy, and knowing Grantaire, the song was originally sung angrily and angstily, but Grantaire had managed to make completely his own, and painfully sad.

Enjolras didn’t realize his fingers were holding down the spacebar until the song ended and he had four blank pages. He ducked his head as Grantaire glanced around, and could feel the other man’s eyes on him. (Damn the blond hair, and the red coat, but that was his fault not genetics.) 

He glanced up to see Grantaire staring sheepishly at him. Now he had to acknowledge him. Sighing, Enjolras saved his paper and packed up his bag, swinging it onto his shoulder as he weaved through the strolling couples and awestruck tourists the few feet to the bridge. 

“Hey Apollo.” Grantaire’s sheepish look was replaced by a mocking smile.

“Since when do you play guitar, and sing.” His tone was incredulous and Grantaire’s cheshire grin did not falter. 

“Since I was an angsty fourteen year old who’s parents didn’t want him smoking weed.” He bites his lip. Enjolras ignores the urge to mirror him. “Which was pretty dumb on their part, don’t they know that the only thing stoners do is eat and form awful bands?”

“But you were good.” Grantaire looked down at the guitar in his arms that had clearly seen better days. Enjolras ignored the sticker that read “this machine kills idealists”.

“Not really, just messing around.” He looked back up at Enjolras. “Don’t tell anyone though.”

Enjolras huffed and glared down angrily. “Why, so someone besides me sees that you have more potential than potentially dying of liver poisoning.” 

“Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong opinion of me, Apollo.” 

“But this is actually a good opinion.”

“I know it’s hard for you to have one of those about me.” Grantaire’s tone was harsh and brash attracting the surprised glances of a few passerby.

“It wouldn’t be if you didn’t waste your life drinking.” How easily conversations between him and Grantaire escalated was beyond Enjolras. He was usually so good at talking. But something within him snapped and could not stop the angry words that came out of his mouth when he talked to the skeptic. 

Enjolras too busy seething, missed the small look of hurt that flickered over Grantaire’s face.

“Cheers then Apollo.” He said swinging the beer bottle next to his foot up to Enjolras and taking a hearty swig. 

“Grantaire…” He was questioning the public drinking and Grantaire knew it. But in lieu of an answer Grantaire began strumming the guitar again. 

_“I’ve seen a lot of sights, and traveled many miles.”_ Enjolras knew this conversation was over. _“Shook a thousand hands and seen my shares of smiles.”_ Enjolras adjusted his shoulder strap and backed away from Grantaire before he strangled the mocking grin right off of Grantaire’s face. _“I’ve caused some great concern and told one too many lies.”_ Enjolras and his long legs quickly strode off in a huff as Grantaire’s strumming grew louder. _“And now I see the world through these sad old jaded eyes.”_

His voiced faded as Enjolras stomped away, fists clenched.

*

Enjolras had certainly not looked up the lyrics when he got home. He immediately rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in frustration. Only Grantaire would cover a Dropkick Murphys’ song in a public park.

He pointedly ignored the raised eyebrow directed at him from Combeferre when he had whispered "Goddamnit, Grantaire.”

He texted Courfeyrac, telling him that Grantaire could sing and that there was an open mic night at the bar on Friday. As much as Enjolras was riled up by Grantaire, he could get his revenge. He just had to ignore the feeling in his stomach when he thought about the scene on the bridge before his big mouth ruined everything. 

He would just have to find another place to study, it was getting too cold outside anyway. He tried to convince himself it was the dropping temperature that had gotten to him.

Tried.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't write stories that don't end with Enjolras getting super frustrated super fast and just yelling in public about Grantaire's drinking.
> 
> This is also a love letter to Boston, I don't know why more people don't set the amis here.
> 
> I have headcanons about what colleges and universities the amis go to in Boston, shhh.


End file.
